LXG: The Opera Ghost Affair
by Q42
Summary: When a British playwright goes missing in Paris, the League is called upon to locate him. Could the mysterious Phantom really be Moriarty, back from the dead? Or are our heroes up against an even stranger foe?
1. Prologue: Paris 1900

**Case File 1445667: The Opera Ghost Affair**

By Q42

---

When a famous British playwright goes missing in Paris, the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is called upon to locate him. However, all is not as it seems with this assignment. Could the mysterious Phantom really be Moriarty, back from the dead? Or is the League up against an even stranger foe?

---

**Prologue: Paris, 1900**

---

George Bernard Shaw was in a good mood. Despite being an avowed Socialist, he had to admit that it was nice to have royalties rolling in. His plays were doing surprisingly well in the United States. Say what you would about the Yanks, at least American censors weren't as bad as their overzealous counterparts in the British Empire.

It was, in part, those revenues which were currently financing this vacation in France. As usual, he and Charlotte had been treated like royalty. After a week touring the countryside in Provence, the couple was staying in one of the finer hotels in Paris, enjoying the city's metropolitan district. Some of the plays weren't even half bad, he had to admit, though it annoyed him that so few French playwrights bothered to address deeper social issues, like the plight of the city's poor folk or the hypocrisy of the rich.

Tonight, for instance, Charlotte had run into one of her numerous friends among the aristocracy, who had recommended some French opera or another. As always, George found himself unable to resist Charlotte's entreaties, and so he found himself walking along beside her, trying not to look like he was being led about – he loved Charlotte dearly, but it wouldn't do for the bold, outspoken author of _The Irrational Knot_ to appear subservient to his wife.

"Oh, come on, George," Charlotte said. "You act as though we're headed for the guillotine, not an entertainment."

"If you ask me," George replied, "it's not so entertaining after you've seen a dozen of them in the last six days. Though, to be fair, it is a decent excuse to escape the lovely perfume of city air…."

Charlotte sighed, rolling her eyes heavenward while unable to hide a smile. "Darling, you just love complaining."

"Oh, quite the contrary, my dear! I'd much prefer to live in a world where there was nothing to complain about. Alas, we live in an imperfect universe, and it seems my unhappy fate to have to constantly remind people of the fact, lest we get too accustomed to wallowing in the mire."

Still walking down the street, he happened to catch sight of a strange structure. It reminded him of the Paris Opera House, but with its windows shattered, the wood and plaster blackened by the heat of some long-ago inferno. "Good Lord," he said, "what on Earth happened to that playhouse? It looks like someone set a torch to it, then let it sit there on the block for a decade or two."

"Oh, that's right! Patricia told me about this place. It's the old Opera Populaire. Apparently, some madman used to hide out in the cellar, until he set the whole place on fire. They built the new Paris Opera House a few years later, but nobody bothered to tear the old building down."

"Hmm, sounds like quite the sensation. Someone ought to write a book about it …."

The couple continued as the last of the twilight faded, gas lamps flickering on to light the darkening streets.

The attack came swiftly. One moment, the Shaws were strolling leisurely toward the opera house; the next, a dark figure flew out from the shadows of a nearby alleyway, sending Mrs. Shaw sprawling on the cobblestones. George's fist instinctively came up, only for him to find his wrist caught in the iron grip of a leather-gloved hand.

"Good evening, Monsieur Shaw," the apparition said, a touch of demonic humor in its deep, resonant voice. "I presume you and your lovely wife were planning to attend some diverting social occasion. An opera, perhaps?"

George glanced behind his black-cloaked assailant to see Charlotte struggling to her feet. The dark man followed his gaze. "Ah! Wealthy, beautiful, and able to withstand rough treatment. You do have good taste, sir." Keeping George held tight, the man reached into a pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. "For you, Madame. If you hope to see your dear, devoted hack of a husband alive again, read that, then follow my instructions to the letter. Otherwise, the world has seen, heard, and read the last of the illustrious George Bernard Shaw."

The kidnapper turned back to George, and he got one last, surprisingly clear look at his face – the long, greasy, unkempt-looking black hair, the wild eyes, and of course, the featureless mask that hid anything else from view.

Then George felt something hard and unyielding strike the back of his head. The last thing he heard was Charlotte's terrified scream, as the playwright's world plunged into blackness.

---


	2. Back from the Dead

**--**-

Chapter 1: Back from the Dead?

---

Allan Quatermain groaned. It had become something of a morning routine for him: Open the eyes, squint at the sudden sunlight streaming in through the window, try to sit up, drop back in pain, try again, flop back onto the bed, and repeat until he got so bloody sick of it that he simply raised his tired body off the mattress through sheer force of will.

_Damn, I hate getting old_, he thought for the God-only-knew-how-many-thousandth time. Africa may not have let him die, but she had apparently felt no obligation to grant him eternal youth, or to erase the ravages of an exceptionally difficult life. As he dangled his legs over the side of the mattress, the grizzled adventurer rubbed the livid white scar between his shoulder blades, a memento from James Moriarty and his backstabbing friend, the hatchet.

A long shower and some fresh clothes later, Allan padded down the hallway toward the Secret Annex of the MI5 building. Though there were times he missed the Dark Continent, Allan had to admit that the hefty retainer offered by the British government – not to mention the League's more-than-adequate accommodations in London – had proven a very effective inducement to remain in Her Majesty's service.

About halfway to his destination, Allan came to an abrupt halt as he collided with … nothing. "Skinner!" he snapped. "For God's sake, put some clothes on! You're a bloody navigational hazard, not to mention indecently exposed."

"Oh, come on," a familiar Cockney accent sounded from somewhere about four feet in front of the white-haired explorer. "Where's the fun in being invisible if you can't sneak up on people now and again? Besides, it's not indecent if you can't _see_ anything, is it?"

Quatermain gave a frustrated sigh. Spotting a potted plant nearby, he quickly grabbed a handful of dry brown soil and tossed it at the general vicinity of Skinner's head. He was instantly rewarded with a startled sputtering, and the thrown dirt quickly revealed the head and shoulders of a lean, hairless man. "Hey! That was uncalled for!"

"Just belling the cat," Allan quipped, then walked past, leaving Skinner to try and brush some of the soil off himself, muttering darkly about how a certain old coot ought to lighten up.

At the end of the hall lay the Secret Annex itself. Stuffed with artifacts and mementos of all sorts, the Annex served as the League's main assembly hall, dining area, and something of a museum besides. As Allan entered, he spotted Jekyll already at his customary seat, a plate of Mrs. Abbott's eggs and breakfast sausage steaming in front of him. Allan nodded to the pale, mild-mannered chemist, then to Nemo. The Indian sub-mariner returned the gesture. "Good day to you, sir," he intoned, then turned his attention back to his own breakfast.

Taking his own seat, Allan was quickly presented with a fresh plate of food by the cheerful old matron who served as the Annex's primary caretaker, chief cook and bottle washer. After a few moments, a faint brown smudge made its way through the air, paused as a chair slid out from the table, then settled above it. "What are we, Allan? Five-year-olds? You don't just throw dirt at people!"

Jekyll tried unsuccessfully to suppress a chuckle, and Nemo cocked an eyebrow at the now semi-visible man. "Were you perhaps a bit more modest, and a bit less averse to wearing clothes at the breakfast table, he would no doubt refrain from doing so."

Skinner gave a frustrated sigh, and from the motion of his shoulders Allan could tell that he was throwing his arms up in surrender. "Fine! Fine. From here on, I'll carry a bloody white flag around, so you lot can quit lobbing the landscape at my head."

As the four men continued their exchange, in walked the League's sole female member, clad in a long black dress, her scarlet-brown hair still damp from her shower. "You know, Mister Skinner," she said conversationally, "there are some creatures in this world who aren't fooled by your so-called invisibility. So please, unless there's a very good reason for not doing so, do try to wear at least a coat. Because quite frankly, even in the infrared spectrum, there's really nothing for you to show off."

Allan felt his lips quirk up into a little half-smile as the smudge that was Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Sometimes, he enjoyed watching the effect Miss Harker's sharp tongue and quick wit could have on men – as long as those same weapons weren't directed at him, of course.

With the League assembled at the breakfast table, the talk turned at last to business. "Well, Miss Harker," Jekyll said, taking a forkful of eggs, "Any word from our good friend Mister Holmes?"

"Not lately," the pale woman replied. "It seems that there are no pressing threats to the security of the Empire just now. Sometimes I wonder if Mycroft even remembers we're here."

"Suits me just fine," Skinner said, a fine china teacup tilting back as its contents seemingly disappeared into thin air. "All the pay, none of the work? Reminds me of the good old days."

"You mean when you were a selfish, dishonest thief?" Allan asked crossly.

"Naturally," Skinner replied, quite unabashed. "And for your information, I still am selfish and dishonest."

At that moment, an electric bell sounded, and in strode a man who might easily have been mistaken for a hippopotamus in a tan sport coat. Such was the girth of Mycroft Holmes, Director General of Military Intelligence, Section 5. "Good morning, everyone," the fat man declared, his deep basso voice sending small tremors through the floor.

"Speak of the devil," Quatermain muttered. "And to what do we owe the honor of your visit, sir?"

"I'm afraid you owe it to some unpleasantness brewing in Paris, Mister Quatermain," the Director gravely replied. "I was just informed this morning that a British citizen has been kidnapped there, and is being held to ransom."

Jekyll made a quiet coughing sound. "Excuse me, but isn't that rather a job for the French police? Unless the victim was the Prince of Wales, or the kidnapper has a private army, perhaps the gendarmes should be allowed to search him out. Otherwise, wouldn't sending a team of British special agents in violate the locals' jurisdiction?"

"Not in this case. The victim, George Bernard Shaw, may not be of any great interest to Her Majesty's government, but his kidnapper most definitely is." So saying, the Director produced a roll of heavy sketch paper. Unfurled, the subject of the piece was revealed.

"Good God!" Allan exclaimed, the color draining from his cheeks.

"Not possible," Nemo murmured, the whites of his eyes growing alarmingly wide in his dark-hued face.

As the League members stared in disbelief at the tall, dark-clad figure on the paper, Mina turned to the director, her face even paler than usual. "Who made this?" she asked shakily.

"One of our staff sketch artists. This was based off information given us by Mrs. Shaw, who was present when her husband was abducted. The kidnapper knocked her down, took hold of Mr. Shaw, then handed her a sealed envelope. Inside was a demand for fifteen thousand British pounds in gold bullion, and instructions on where and how to have it delivered."

"Bloody hell!" Skinner exclaimed. Indeed, his rather crude outburst summed up everyone's feelings quite nicely. There, on the sketch paper, was a man in a long black cloak. Greasy, unkempt hair framed his face.

Or, rather, the featureless metal mask that served as his face.

Allan felt his jaw and fists clench, the scar on his back throbbing as he beheld the man who made it.

"Moriarty."

---

A/N: I know that MI5 was officially founded in 1909, nine years after this story is set, but if you look closely at the graphic novel, the Secret Annex is supposed to be in the MI5 building. I suppose in the LXG universe, with so many menaces lurking about, they had to establish it quite a bit earlier than in our own.

---


	3. Arrival

**---**

Chapter 2: Arrival

--

The voyage to Paris lasted far too long for Henry Jekyll's liking. It wasn't that he disliked traveling in Captain Nemo's fantastic, atom-powered submersible ship; as a man of science himself, he took every opportunity to study and marvel at the genius behind it.

What made this trip so nerve-wracking, though, was its object: the man who had originally assembled the League, used it for his own twisted ends, then very nearly killed them all. _Sawyer shot him. Both he and Allan said they saw him die. So how could he possibly be the one behind this kidnapping?_

_Who cares?_ Came the coarse, familiar mental voice of his darker half. _We'll hunt him down in the streets, then pay him back for trying to double-cross us. I'll tear his pasty little face off. I'll feed it to the cats. I'll rip his guts out…_

Henry felt his stomach flip over; seasickness and Edward Hyde's revenge schemes were a miserable combination. _Edward, you do realize that these mental images of yours are tumbling about in my head as well, don't you?_

_You think I give a damn about your upset bowels? Take a swig of the potion if you feel out of sorts; you know I can handle a little tossing about._

"That's not going to happen, and you know it," Edward muttered through clenched teeth.

"What's not going to happen?" a female voice asked innocently from nearby.

Startled, Henry spun about. Charlotte Payne-Townshend Shaw was standing behind him, a concerned look on her face. "Doctor Jekyll, are you quite all right?"

"M-more or less," Henry stammered. "Just a bit of nerves. Nothing too serious." He tried to give the lady a smile, but what resulted was a bit more crooked and nervous than reassuring.

Lady Shaw gave him an odd look. "Well, I do hope you come through all right. Now, what were you saying?"

"I was just, ah, thinking out loud," Henry replied. "I only meant that the man who kidnapped your husband will never get away with it."

_You bet your scrawny arse he won't! I'll— _

_Not now, Edward. Please! Don't make me vomit in front of this poor woman – she's been through enough without seeing that!_

Up _and down and_ up _and down and_ up _and down …._

"Mmp!" Henry cried, clapping a hand over his mouth. Green as a cucumber, Dr. Jekyll ran off, looking for somewhere to eject his lunch without offending anyone else's sight.

Charlotte watched the unfortunate Doctor retreat down the hall, disappearing around a corner. _That poor young man_, she thought. _He seems so terribly frail. Hardly suited to this difficult kind of work…._

---

Half an hour later, the _Nautilus_ was safely anchored near the Île de la Cité, in the heart of Paris, and the British Empire's most extraordinary band of adventurers set foot on dry land at last.

"I shall have to put her in dry dock when we return to London," Nemo groused, "and scour her hull thoroughly. Man has made a dumping-ground of this river."

"Really?" Henry asked. "You never complain this much about the Thames, Nemo."

"No, I do not. One does not see horrors such as _that_ floating about freely on London's principal waterway." Nemo aimed a disgusted look at something in the river. Henry followed his gaze … then instantly felt the urge to vomit again. "Ah, I think you're right, Captain," he said, quickly retreating out of sight of the brown water. There were some things that even an industrial society ought not to tolerate….

"Aha! There you are!" From amid the crowd of Parisians gawking at the _Nautilus_, a diminutive elderly fellow emerged. The gentleman was clad in a light brown suit and sported a small green felt hat over his bald head, a white mustache covering his upper lip. "It is good to see you again, Monsieur Quatermain, Madamoiselle Harker."

Mina bowed respectfully at the little old man. "Inspector Dupin. The honor is ours."

As the Inspector approached, Henry felt a lump form in his throat. The Frenchman's clear blue eyes locked on his, his all-searching gaze seeming to bore back into the Doctor's shared skull. "Monsieur Jekyll. I trust you shall be on your best behavior this visit, yes?"

"Of course," Henry replied, tugging nervously at his ear. "Ah, no hard feelings about last time, eh?"

The little old man gave him a distrustful squint. "I have forgiven, Doctor. But C. Auguste Dupin does not forget."

_Neither do I_, a deep voice growled in the back of Henry's mind.

"F-fair enough," said Henry, trying to hide his alter ego's wrath behind a half-hearted, semi-pleasant smile.

Dupin gave him a hard look, then turned to address the rest of the League. "I shall escort you to Department headquarters." Turning about, the elderly Inspector made his way through the throng of gawkers, parting them rather like Moses through a human Red Sea. Henry and the others followed him through the streets of Paris, trying to look as inconspicuous as an armed adventurer, an Indian submariner, a grease-painted albino, a vampiress and a sickly doctor could.

---

A/N: For those who haven't read the graphic novel, shame on you! You're probably confused as to how Mina, Allan and Henry know Inspector Dupin. For those who have, you already know that he helped the League to track down Hyde/Jekyll in the first issue (and shot off part of Hyde's ear in the process).

Since I'm posting this in the Movies section, however (the Comics section for LXG only has seven stories), I've had to take a few liberties. Let's just say that in the movieverse, Dupin helped Allan, Mina and Sawyer to dig through the Paris police records and figure out Hyde's location, and that director Stephen Norrington _et al_ accidentally left the scene on the cutting-room floor.

---


	4. Chasing Phantoms

---

Chapter 3: Chasing Phantoms

---

The Seine Department's headquarters was an imposing building, housing the bureaucratic machinery of Paris's police force. Upon entering, Dupin had to lead the British adventurers through a never-ending flow of foot-traffic. Clerks rushed past, ferrying documents from one department to another; anxious citizens milled about, waiting to present their various grievances to some hapless functionary; uniformed officers shoved shuffling, reluctant ruffians to their holding cells. All in all, it was just the sort of pandemonium one would expect to find in a major metropolitan police building.

Then Dupin led his charges down a long, winding spiral staircase. After the first four floors, the noise and bustle of the ground level faded into silence. "This is our Records department. Just a moment; I shall announce us." Dupin rapped on a door, and a loud crash could be heard on the other side, with the unmistakable sound of paper stacks toppling to the floor. Muffled cursing followed. Then the door opened to reveal a portly, bespectacled fellow with curly black hair, a beard, and a handlebar mustache. "Inspector Dupin! So sorry!" babbled the clerk. "I got so, so absorbed in my research, and when you knocked—"

"Never mind, Gaston," the older Frenchman said tiredly, as though all too used to this sort of thing. Gesturing to the clerk, he said, "Monsieurs, Madame and Mademoiselle, may I introduce _Guardien_ Gaston Leroux, one of our most, ah, dedicated archivists, and something of an amateur author besides." Turning back toward Leroux, the Inspector inquired, "Have you found anything on this Moriarty character?"

"Ah, well, quite a bit, actually. Good birth, excellent education, mathematical genius, criminal mastermind, late head of the League of—"

"Yes, yes, we know all that," Allan snapped. "Do you have anything _recent_? Say, within the last year or so?"

"On Monsieur Moriarty? _Non_ – in fact, the most recent information we have was provided by an American Secret Service agent, detailing the circumstances of his death."

Allan sighed. "So, it's a dead end."

"Not necessarily," the clerk said, holding up a finger. "Your Moriarty may be moldering somewhere in northern Asia, but I have here files pertaining to another masked man, known to have operated here in Paris, whose career goes back at least two decades…."

"Oh, Gaston, not this again!" exclaimed Dupin. "We are searching for a real criminal mastermind, not one of your urban legends!"

"But _Le Fantôme_ is real! Former Commissary Mifroid wrote the case file. I myself visited the underground lake where he made his lair, and discovered the skeletons of some of his victims. There were multiple eyewitness accounts, and I believe there is an old facial composite somewhere in here…." Turning his head from side to side, the clerk began digging through the mess of fallen papers.

"Please forgive _Guardien_ Leroux," Dupin said with a sigh. "I'm afraid his taste for crime fiction often leads him to contemplate the more bizarre and unbelievable accounts that pass through our records. _Le Fântome de l'Opéra_ is an urban myth here in Paris. An old opera house burned down two decades ago, and some people began telling fantastic stories about a disfigured man, living beneath it in the catacombs, who supposedly started the fire."

"Aha! There he is!" cried Leroux, holding up an old piece of paper. "When I first read Madame Shaw's description, I was immediately reminded of this image." His rosy cheeks dimpled by a triumphant smile, the stout clerk laid the wanted poster upon his desk.

The poster presented two faces, or rather, two images of the same face. The one on the right featured a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing, intelligent-looking eyes. The face might have been handsome … had half of it not been horribly disfigured, as in some terrible burning, or by a cruel accident of birth. Wild hair was drawn around the face; the black-and-white print gave the impression of a lighter shade, perhaps blond or aged silver.

The image on the left showed the same eyes, chin and lips, but with everything else obscured by a mask. Black hair framed this disguised visage, tied back in a short French ponytail. Assuming that the right-hand composite was the man's natural appearance, the black hair must have been a wig.

Allan stared at the printed image. _Good God! With that mask, and in the right light …_"Mrs. Shaw, could this be the man who attacked you?"

Charlotte stared hard at the poster. "It … it _might_ be. I remember that he was tall, and terribly thin. And he was very strong; I think he must have thrown me at least twenty feet. And poor George…."

"Well, this certainly complicates things," Mina muttered. "So we might be looking for M, or for this Phantom character."

"Or for some entirely different criminal using the guise of _Le Fântome_ to conceal his own identity," Dupin said sourly. "Yes, this does indeed complicate matters."

The members of the League stood around Leroux's desk, gazing at the faded wanted poster. Then Allan sighed, drawing himself up. "Well, that means we have some leads to follow. Mrs. Shaw, the kidnapper left you a note. Where and when does it instruct you to deliver the gold?

Charlotte reached into one of her pockets, withdrawing the letter. "He said to have my family fortune delivered to the Port de l'Arsenal in two more days. If it is not there by midnight, he says—"

Allan nodded quickly, cutting off the kidnapper's threat. "Not to worry, Mrs. Shaw, you and your husband will be in good hands. Miss Harker, Mr. Skinner and Captain Nemo will help you find the hand-off point, and the four of you will keep an eye out for any suspicious activity. Whether this is the work of Moriarty or some other criminal, our man must know the port well. He probably spends time there himself. With any luck, he'll show up there prior to the deadline. If he does, you will apprehend him – _alive_, Nemo – and discover Mr. Shaw's location."

The Indian nodded. "Your reasoning is sound. Even in disguise, when the villain shows himself, he will not escape us."

"I'm counting on it," Allan replied. "Miss Harker, your thoughts?"

The vampiress shrugged. "It sounds logical enough. And what will you be doing while we're watching the port?"

"I'll answer that in a moment. First, Inspector, may I ask for your assistance?"

Dupin gave a nod, placing his hat over his breast. "Of course, Monsieur Quatermain."

"Good. While Mrs. Shaw and the others are over at the Port de l'Arsenal, you, Doctor Jekyll and I will be following up on this Opera Ghost affair."

"But it is irrelevant to the case!" the Inspector exclaimed. "It is a fantasy, concocted by inflamed imaginations and spread by gossips!"

The clerk tried to cut in. "But—!"

"And even if the tale _were_ true," Dupin added, giving the clerk a hard glance, "why would a deformed arsonist from twenty years ago suddenly reappear and kidnap a foreigner? Other than the costume, there is no connection! It is obviously a ruse, meant to mislead us."

Allan gave the Inspector a sympathetic nod. "Quite likely, you're right. On the other hand, we can't afford to overlook anything. If this Phantom really is behind the kidnapping, our search may flush him out. If not, the real kidnapper might have some sort of connection to the case. And in any event, we'll still have our team waiting to catch him at the port."

Dupin gave a resigned huff. "I still say that it is a waste of time. However, you are right that we cannot afford to ignore potential leads. Even if they lead to nowhere…."

"I can help!" Leroux exclaimed. "I know the case better than anyone. I have all the files right here!"

Allan glanced at Dupin, who was clearly not happy with the idea. "It couldn't hurt to bring him along," the grizzled adventurer said.

Dupin gave the clerk a sour look. Then the older man sighed in resignation. "Very well."

"_Oui! Oui!"_ cried Leroux, his portly body trembling with joy as he rushed to gather his papers. _For a thirty-year-old man,_ Allan thought, _he acts like an overgrown schoolboy._

"All right then," the white-haired explorer declared. "We'll meet back at the _Nautilus_ at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning!" Skinner complained. "You mean you expect us to stay out all night? Without any sleep? "

"Yes," replied Mina, "because our kidnapper may wait until early morning to survey the docks, reasoning that most people will be asleep."

"Or too tired and careless to notice him," added Nemo, his dark-eyed gaze seeming to bore straight through the invisible man's sunglasses. "Let us hope that our vigilance proves him wrong."

Allan couldn't help but smirk as an audible gulp emanated from Skinner's throat. "Good. We have two days to find and capture this so-called Phantom. Let's get a move on!"

---


End file.
